India: Land of the Rain or Shine

It’s been over a week in monsoon-ridden Mumbai. The days have passed by at their own pace, as extreme and free-falling as the two-hour downpours scattered throughout the afternoon and night, torrents of rain falling from a white sky. 

We stay at a YMCA about forty-five minutes drive away from the airport.  Similar to a hostel, this YMCA is located at the south end of Mumbai, considered the well-off part of the city.  Near the famous Gateway of India that looks out into the sea and even closer to the unfortunately infamous Taj Hotel and Leopold Café (hot-spot tourist areas that were terrorist targets a few years back), the YMCA is at the center of bustling Colaba.  

Every morning, my roommate, Zoey, and I awake to the sound of a sharp knock on the door.  One of us stumbles to take the pot of chai and the teacups from the porter in the doorway.  The humidity in the hallways always hits us in the faces like a soft hammer.  Sometimes, the rain outside is a deluge and we hear it thudding.  Sometimes we are lucky, and it is only a dripping of moisture from the air.

Chai.  Sweet, creamy, and a hint of English breakfast—it’s like no other tea I’ve ever had.  Even better is dipping butter cookies into the steaming liquid, biting in and tasting that mix of flavorful-soft-crispy… ahh, it’s so delicious.  Chai was my first taste of India, early my first morning in Mumbai, and I love it. (I’ve been on a crazed search to find the recipe, but no one seems to know despite the commonplace nature of the hot, milky drink.)

The YMCA hostel where I stayed

Outside of the YMCA, one hears the scraggly honks of compact taxis, driver seat on the left, the deeper screeches of breaks, shouts from a man selling T-shirts for 100 rupees—good price guaranteed!— the chattering of shopkeepers and the soft padding of skinny-ribbed dogs.  Then the people, so many bodies pressed against each other, some wearing saris or kurtis, the scarves and fabric smoothly brushing by, the men in simple pants, flip-flops and untucked, button-down shirts, striped or layered in swirl patterns, younger Indians in modern clothing—jeans, T-shirts, heels—the policemen with their grey-green uniforms and brimmed hats.  The smells, too, are different, wafting urine, diesel fuel, rain.

One of the most difficult things in India is crossing the street.  India’s traffic amazes me—it’s a rush, a rush of cars, of people, the honks filling the air, the wheels turning, the cars jerking forward, rushing, rushing, braking. At a crosswalk, the white lines and the lit-up green stick figure—go!— at the other side are only a 70% guarantee that you will get across the concrete without a car nearly running you over, honking in reprimand.  Once, I crossed to the middle of a street and was caught at the center as two large buses rattled only inches in front of and behind me.

I love how in India, taxi drivers will talk to each other through unrolled windows.   After I hail a cab, the driver will look out of the passenger window at me, raise his eyebrows, and perform a perfunctory bobble of the head.  “YMCA Colaba?” or “St. Xavier’s College?”  I request. He will inevitably carry out the same dip of the head, not quite a nod, not quite a shake (what we call the “Indian head bobble”) whether or not he knows the place. If he does not know, the driver will hunt down another driver, drive dangerously  close to the other car, give a lean honk, and ask where the place is while simultaneously doing the inescapable head bobble—it is intervehicle communication.   

Herein lies the warmhearted, generous spirit that I’ve come to encounter in India.  If approached, most Indians I’ve met in Mumbai are more than willing to help out, and the students from St. Xavier’s College, where our program is held, are especially welcoming and friendly.  One of the girls even invited Zoey and me to her home in South Mumbai for dinner and a sleepover.

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Yet, stray dogs wander the mud-infested streets and small, barefooted children put their fingers to their lips in silent pleas for food.    Walking down Colaba Causeway, one steps over and around split-level cracks in the sidewalk, homeless people’s knobby legs, broken palm branches, and still-bubbly collisions of spit against cement.  Natives are desensitized to the suffering around them, for to feel for the poor is to be constantly distraught.  Everywhere, they stare openly at outsiders, and some even creepily take photos of us with their cell phones as if we don’t notice.  Poverty lies in the same streets as immense wealth; success and failure dwell side by side. 

There has been no other place I’ve seen that is so full of extremes.